


¿Y dónde está mi gente? (Say Yeah Yeah Yeah)

by starofrebecca



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Dance, Hip Hop, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 09:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13521468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starofrebecca/pseuds/starofrebecca
Summary: Even now that his crowd of dancers rivals the size of Keith's, Lance still feels the push of competition between them. He knows that Keith sometimes will watch from the door when his class is on water break. He never comes in, never says anything. Lance is pretty sure Keith thinks he's too good for him. Probably judging him for being new.(Deep down, deep deep down, Lance hopes Keith is watching and likes what he sees.)





	¿Y dónde está mi gente? (Say Yeah Yeah Yeah)

**Author's Note:**

> I am Absolute Trash and have No Regrets.

It's a Wednesday night, and it is one in every sense of the word.

Lance is wiping his forehead, dripping sweat, when he sees the figure by the doorway. Standing with his arms crossed, Keith is watching him with a frown on his face. Like something was wrong with Lance's choreography, like he didn't  _like_  it. Irritation prickles up Lance's spine.

"What?" he asks. He doesn't like people watching him when he's still trying to figure out the choreography for a class. Especially this class -- a more advanced hip-hop class, with everyone right around his age. 

Teaching at a dance studio was not where he thought he would end up right out of school, but it paid alright, and the night classes meant that he could still work the day shift at the sports center. He had been dancing for as long as he could remember: little salsa numbers with his mom, ballroom during that awkward middle school phase, hip-hop as he got older. He had been running through an old freestyle routine in the middle of the night after his last exam season of college, and when the studio instructor came in to kick him out, she instead offered him a job. Which was surprising, flattering, and terrifying, in turn. He accepted it without a second thought, because hey, he's a first-generation college student, and money is tight, and one less night shift at the library is a blessing sent straight from the Heavenly Father himself.

Which landed him here, in this dance studio, trying to piece together this routine. A routine that has been giving him grief for days.

Keith is still watching him with that face. 

It's not that Lance and Keith don't get along. It's more that they're rivals. Their classes are at the same time on Tuesday nights, and the target population is the same. Keith teaches k-pop -- like, the grungy kind. Lance is more Top 40 and latin dance. Keith was here before him, and had a steady stream of regulars. Lance had worked for weeks on end to earn that kind of crowd. In the beginning, on those few terrible days when no one would come, he would peek into Keith's class. To see what he was missing, he always told himself. Which was mostly true. He would watch how Keith interacted with the class, silently picking out what he would do differently. More hands-on help, less blunt criticism.

But there was also a teeny, tiny part of him that liked just watching Keith. The sharpness of his movements, the body isolation. Keith is also -- and Lance cringes as he acknowledges this -- very, very good at hip thrusting. Unfairly so. It has led Lance to practice his more often than he will ever admit.

(Keith made eye contact with him one day while he was spying on the class and stopped right in the middle of a routine to bark, "Well, are you coming in or not?" And Lance, turning a very particular shade of tomato, fled and hid in the bathroom until the studio closed for the night. That was five months ago. They haven't spoken since.)

Even now that his crowd of dancers rivals the size of Keith's, Lance still feels the push of competition between them. He knows that Keith sometimes will watch from the door when his class is on water break. He never comes in, never says anything. Lance is pretty sure Keith thinks he's too good for him. Probably judging him for being new.

(Deep down, deep deep down, Lance hopes Keith is watching and likes what he sees.)

"You're moving too wildly," Keith finally says. Lance bristles, feeling the way his hair stands up on the back of his neck.

"What do you mean, too wildly?" Lance asks, a little louder than usual. Which is loud. What can he say, he's his mother's son.

"Like, you're flinging your arms out everywhere," Keith gestures emphatically. "You're all over the place. It feels like you're not in control."

Lance feels himself begin to scowl as he stands up and marches over to Keith.

"Well, if you're so good at it, why don't you do it?" Lance taunts, fully expecting Keith to stick his nose in the air and march away. Instead, much to Lance's surprise, Keith huffs and strides over to the stereo. Lance leans against the back wall, grumpy, watching Keith in the mirror as he moves to the center of the room.

When the music starts, Keith doesn't move. For a good five seconds, he stands completely still. Listening. Internalizing the beat. 

When he does start moving, Lance inhales sharply. It's his own choreography,  _the one he was just doing_ , but it looks completely different. Where Lance was all hips and flowing movements, Keith is sharp angles and strong lines. His ability to freeze his body at exactly the right time keeps Lance on edge. It's almost as if his body is a series of drawings, with a new pose presented on each beat, and each time he stops, Lance is actually able to  _see_  the form. It's incredible. It's beautiful. Lance wants to keep watching, watch for hours.

(He also wants to grind into Keith from behind and put his hands all over that body and suck marks into his neck. But those thoughts are banished to the Alone In Bed At Night corner of his brain.)

When the song ends and the last notes fade into ringing silence, Lance realizes that Keith is looking at him in the mirror. Keith's panting and has a light sheen of sweat on his forehead and a high flush on his cheeks. Lance doesn't know what to say. What do you say to your rival, whom you've never really spoken to, when they come and dance your own choreography better than you do?

Turns out Lance doesn't have to speak first, because Keith does.

"I've been watching you work on it for a while," Keith says, ducking his head. Lance can see the flush spreading down Keith's neck. Up to his ears, too. "You're really good at certain parts. The rolls, the grind." 

Lance feels his own face begin to heat up. Okay, so Keith knows that he's good at the sensual moves. It doesn't mean anything other than Keith can be objective sometimes. 

(Lies, lies, a throne of lies.)

Keith seems to force down his blush and locks eyes with Lance in the mirror.

"I can help, if you want," he says quietly. "With the other parts."

And it feels like the world goes still. Like honest to god, time freezes. Because here Lance is, with his biggest (crush) rival offering to spend time with him, to actually help him. Lance feels the natural instinct to brush him off rise within him, but it gets stuck at the bottom of his throat. What tumbles out of his mouth instead is, 

"Only if you look as good out of those pants as you do in them,  _papi_."

(To be fair, those leather pants do unfair things to Lance's head. Keith's ass practically has a spotlight on it. His thighs are unreal. It's offensive.)

The room goes deathly silent as Lance realizes what bullshit he actually just said. He has a smirk on his face. He just called Keith "papi." He has basically admitted to outright oogling Keith's ass. The guy in question is looking at him with eyes that are ready to pop out of his head.

Lance is in the middle of saying a prayer to whatever god exists to please let the ground open up beneath him and let him fall to his well-deserved death when Keith bursts into laughter. Lance startles. Laughing. He's laughing. Keith's clutching his stomach, doubled over, barely able to breathe. Lance watches in stunned silence as Keith eventually collapses to the floor, laughing like this is the funniest shit that has ever happened to him.

Lance feels a giggle escape him, then another, and another, until he can't stop and then he's wheezing and joining Keith rolling around on the floor. They keep going, feeding off of each other. Every time they calm down, one of them will giggle again, and that sets off a whole other round. Lance feels like he's on cloud nine.

It's got to be at least ten minutes later when Lance wipes tears from his eyes and sits up. He looks over at Keith, who's looking up at the ceiling with the biggest grin on his face. 

"So, you really are the type who flirts with everyone," Keith says, turning to Lance. He's hit directly in the chest with the intensity of Keith's eyes. His heart stutters for a moment. Goddamn.

"Nah, baby," Lance says with a smirk. "Only people who can make a shirt like that look better on than off." He tugs at Keith's loose crop top so that it falls off his shoulder, and his eyes follow that pale expanse of skin right back to those striking eyes. 

(When will he ever learn to use a filter? Never, apparently.)

Well, if he hadn't made his intentions clear before, he certainly has now. He's expecting Keith to shy away, at best. Push him away, at worst. 

What he's not expecting is for Keith to crawl into his lap, throw his arms around Lance's neck, and look down at him with a sharp smirk.

"Wanna test that theory?" he asks, and oh boy, Lance can feel him pressed up all along his chest and he is hot, hot hot. Lance moves his hands to the pale expanse of Keith's sides, then up his back, tracing over the muscles developed from years of dancing, and he feels himself starting to lose his damn mind. Keith is into him.  _Keith_  is into  _him_. Lance looks at Keith's lips for a moment, then back to his eyes. 

"Try to keep up, mullet."

\-------------------------------------------------

One week later, it's a special joint class for the K-Pop and Latin groups. The students are all chattering, lining the walls of the room, as Keith ties his hair into a ponytail in the middle of the room and Lance fiddles with the stereo. They've never danced together, and the room is packed. 

The music pulses from the speakers. Lance bounces over to Keith. For a moment, they share a grin. Then they both turn to the camera and start to dance.

It's the same choreography, but Lance and Keith are completely different. Lance is smooth, smooth, like water, while Keith is crackling and explosive fire. And yet, there are elements of the other in each. The way Keith fluidly grinds into the floor. Lance's sharp shoulder pops. The way they seem to pull closer together, then push away. This is life. This is dance. 

(This is love.)

They end crowded in each other's space, breathing heavy. Their faces are only a few inches away, and that tension is killing Lance. After a moment of will-he-won't-he, Keith leans forward that last little bit and presses his lips to Lance's, and Lance melts. He returns that kiss with enthusiasm, smiling when he hears the cheers of the students.

(They ignore the money exchanging hands in the background, because Keith is wearing the crop top and leather pants again, and Lance is planning to make good on those thoughts he had last week.)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qtXoTfyGxCc
> 
> (You'll know who's who.)
> 
> This has been rolling around in my head since this video came out (so, like, 5 months). I watched it and immediately saw Keith and Lance. It could not be helped. And thus I took the time to sit my ass down and figure out a way to get these two boys to dance with each other. It was great fun.


End file.
